Snow White
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Skwisgaar Skwigelf is the son of the Cocaine Queen of L.A., but when she dies and her jealous boytoy husband, Toki Wartooth, takes over, Skwisgaar has every reason to fear for his life. Slash.
1. Once Upon a Time in LA

**Snow White**

**Author: **H.J. Bender

**Rating:** M for language, violence, drug use and "adult situations".

**Summary:** The classic tale of a jealous, psychotic stepparent out to get their stepkid. Now sexier with 25% more drugs.

**Disclaimer:** Names, places, characters, etc. belong to Small & Blacha. All rights preserved & embalmed.

* * *

Los Angeles CA, late 70s. It was a good era for the Eurotrash. Serveta Skwigelf, former Miss Sweden from a year she had stopped mentioning a decade ago, blonde and perfectly-figured, had been a beloved fashion accessory on the arm of many a rising young star. Twinkling blue-shadowed eyelids had bowed before millionaires, long lashes had fluttered seductively over martini glasses at parties, silver high heels and painted-on miniskirts had been tossed under myriad beds in Beverly Hills, cigarettes had been lit between glossy red lips in dark, smoky corners of Hollywood's most illustrious clubs, and there was nothing which her sex appeal could not afford her. Serveta became famous by her associations, rose to aristocracy through her glamorous personality, and was Tinsel Town's favorite sex symbol.

The tabloids targeted her many affairs and scandals, most of which were true, yet this negative attention only made her more renowned. She married once, twice, thrice and more. Still currently divorced after #5. A reputed lush, her dirt was legendary, as were the rumors of her extraordinary sexual appetite and a penchant for pretty white lines. But none of that was equivalent to the shock received when her pregnancy first went public. The media hype was sensational, and speculation as to who was the father of the child went unresolved. Serveta herself never spoke of the baby's paternity, and thus was her bastard son Skwisgaar born into a society of ill-gotten luxury—skin as white as cocaine, hair as yellow as gold, blood as red as sin.

Skwisgaar, alike in beauty as his infamous mother, was innocent and oblivious of the world that was now against him, and it was not unusual to find Serveta leading the attacks on her own son. Her beauty was ravaged by the strains of maternity; the weight never left her thighs and belly, her once-admirable bosom began to sag, she developed varicose veins and cellulite, her complexion became rough and dry, her hair dulled and lost its splendor, and she owed it all to her son, whom she in turn neglected and put in the care of a sitter whenever she could. He was excess baggage—nobody wanted a woman with a kid. Serveta underwent plastic surgery to undo gravity and time, and swallowed her pride with Vicodin chasers in order to maintain the standard of living to which she had become dependent. She went through rich, trashy boyfriends like underwear—not that she was ever particularly fond of wearing the latter—and Skwisgaar became accustomed to her many paramours and the nights when thumps and moans were his only lullaby.

Serveta was dating an alcoholic rock star when Skwisgaar turned 6. She'd been with him longer than any of the rest, mainly because of his constant supply of cocaine and a lack of good judgment, and was the closest thing to a father figure that Skwisgaar was ever going to get. His mom's boyfriend gave him a guitar for his birthday—a shiny new Gibson X-plorer—and when the guy OD'd five months later, Skwisgaar focused his angst and frustration on the guitar and soon found a suitable outlet for the emotional pain that plagued him daily. Skwisgaar taught himself to play, and play well. He avoided his mother and the endless queue of men she continued to drag home, found no comfort or reward in his schooling (as his Swedish tutor was also banging his mom), and soon Skwisgaar had developed a dislike for all things female.

Serveta, her looks having already vanished by the time Skwisgaar was 13, fell into association with a high-profile trafficker from Columbia and formed "a business arrangement" that was to the benefit of both parties. Marketing a unique blend of coke dubbed "Snow White", she became the queen of the Los Angeles night, earned a reputation for being a saucy bitch who flashed collagen smiles as she sold her poisoned apples, and was revered by dealers everywhere—the sweetheart of narcotics, the honey-mama of crime. Her rule was absolute and everyone in town bowed to her. The LAPD was bought and paid for, the CIA wouldn't touch her—she was omnipotent.

Such as it was, money was no longer a concern and the Skwigelfs lived in excessive luxury, though Skwisgaar was not made any happier because of it. Alternately it made his life a living hell. "Snow White" haunted him, hunted him, prevented him from achieving any legitimacy and normalcy for himself; always would he be known as the bastard son of a drug dealing slut. He'd given up on goodness long ago, being damned before he had even been born. Music was now his only passion and he quickly became known for his legendary licks in the L.A. metal scene, an attachment that was perhaps as dark and brutal as that of the cocaine industry.

By his fifteenth year he'd been offered several contracts and labels, but being a minor, required his mother's permission before any official action could be taken. Serveta, however, was far too busy entertaining clients by the poolside to sign her name to her son's dream. Skwisgaar retaliated by taking his music even more seriously and haphazardly throwing his virginity to the wind. He was rich, talented, handsome and Swedish—getting girls was easy. And that was all they were to him. Easy.

Entering his 20s granted Skwisgaar certain freedoms, but he still remained wholly dominated by the Queen of Cocaine, trapped in her realm and rendered a helpless subject to her power, forced to witness her unyielding affection for Snow White, a love greater than a mother's love for her son. But Skwisgaar was strong. He held out, hoping bitterly that someday this would end. Someday he would be free.

Someday his chance will come.

* * *

Skwisgaar was a few months short of 23 when from out of the blue his mother announced that she was getting married again. This would be Hubby #7. Skwisgaar was indignant about it all, but that was nothing compared to the shock he received when he discovered that his soon-to-be stepfather was as young as himself: he was a long-haired Norwegian guy with an impressive physique and a hulking, stupid-looking bodyguard named Big Nate who talked in growls and towered over peoples' heads like a Gotham City skyscraper. His master, Toki Wartooth, was not a man to be fucked with. That was made clear the moment he and Skwisgaar were first alone, shortly after the wedding had taken place; the back of a hand went across the Swede's face and a boot to the chest sent him slamming down into a chair. That same boot then rested itself on the crotch of his jeans as Toki leaned in close, smiling pleasantly.

"We gets one thing straight here," he murmured, taking Skwisgaar by the chin, "don't fuck with me, Pretty Eyes, or I fucks you up real good. You doesn't even wants to know what'll happens if I lets Big Nate has you."

There came an answering growl from the shadows and Skwisgaar squeaked in humiliation as his balls were painfully pinned between a heavy boot and a chair.

"I runs this show now. Your mom don't know what's it is she got herself into, but I here to stays, understand? Your mom's mine, and you mine too. _Son_."

A thumb stroked Skwisgaar's trembling, bleeding lower lip and Toki sneered at him lewdly. "Bloods as red as sin. You such a pretty thing, you knows. Lots prettier than your mom. Look likes I joins de right family." With a wicked laugh he released Skwisgaar and then vanished with his henchman. The young Swede was strong, but not strong enough for this. He folded himself in two and wept, and never spoke of the incident for fear of his own life.

Six months later Serveta S. Wartooth "accidentally" shot herself while passed out drunk one evening, and everything—including Skwisgaar—passed into her husband's possession. Toki was now the king of L.A., and his stepson was soon to become the focus of his most ardent attention…

* * *

Each day would start as the last: upon rising in the early afternoon, Toki would attend to his hangover, talk to clients over brunch, do a few lines, and then play his guitar in the plaza outside. He was fast, he was good, and he was metal. But he knew not of Skwisgaar's similar talents, though when the knowledge was disclosed it did not make him any more affectionate towards his stepson. Instead he became jealous and paranoid—exceedingly so—and hired a manager who had beaucoup connections in the music industry and who knew all of the greatest guitarists in the world. He was instructed to stalk Skwisgaar and make note of his rapidly advancing abilities.

Every day Toki would ask the same thing, "Ofdensen, you knows everythings. Tells me, who is de fastest guitarists alive?"

"I've double-checked all my sources, Mr Wartooth," Ofdensen would reply. "There is no guitarist alive who is faster than you."

And this would satisfy Toki until he would hear Skwisgaar up in his room, composing new licks and shredding them with such a magnificent sound as to put the Norwegian's playing to shame. Thus Toki spent his days beside himself with envy and fear of the Swede eclipsing his own talents.

And then, perhaps a year or so after the death of Serveta, when Skwisgaar was at his handsomest and most affluent point in life, Toki asked of Ofdensen the usual question, but this time the manager replied, "It distresses me, Toki, to tell you: there is one other now who is faster than you."

"Who is he?" shouted Toki, slamming his fists on the table. "Gives me his name!"

Ofdensen sighed and said, "You know it well enough; he is your stepson, Skwisgaar Skwigelf. He is now the fastest guitarist alive, and is at this moment on the verge of forming his own band. If that happens…"

Toki frowned darkly and stroked his Fu Manchu. "Yes, he is havings such good lucks, so much to lives for. It would be so very unfortunates if somethings was to happens to him…Nathan!"

The monstrous man was at his master's side momentarily. Toki turned to him with a deadly glare. "I thinks now would be a good time for you and Skwisgaar to gets to knows one anothers. Takes him to Mira-Mira, they hasing a rave there tonight. Waste him, load him, fucks him up." He reached across the table and slid an ornate silver cigar box towards his henchman. "Cut out his heart and puts it in this. I wants it on my desk tomorrow mornings."

Nathan picked up the box with a grunt of acknowledgement and disappeared.

* * *

Skwisgaar was surprised and suspicious when Big Nate came to him early that evening and suggested that they attend a rave at one of the underground hotspots; however, Skwisgaar was too intimidated by the dark haired man to say no, and so the Swede put on his leather and stainless steel, strapped his guitar to his back, and set off with his escort, unaware of the large knife hidden in Nate's belt and the silver cigar box in the back seat that would be carrying his heart home in just a few short hours.

Everything went as planned at the rave. Skwisgaar was almost a little grateful to Nate for taking him out like this. Letting himself go wild and loose was a luxury his suffocating lifestyle rarely afforded him. After a couple blotters of LSD, several lines of Snow, and enough absinthe to impress even the most hardcore 19th century literary figure, Skwisgaar took to the stage with his X-plorer and added a little metal to the obnoxious techno beat.

Even wasted beyond comprehension, the Swede was still the fastest—if not the _best_—guitarist alive. Anyone who could turn electro-techno-geek-fag-music into brutal bone-crushing metal possessed a talent that few on this earth could claim to be blessed with. Nathan was witness to this, and deep down in his black heart he regretted that he would be forced to extinguish this prodigy, to savagely carve out its soul and deliver it to his cruel and hateful master like a prize. Surely, to own the heart of the handsomest, most gifted young man on earth was indeed a prize…but not like this. Not this way.

Four thirty in the morning saw Nathan dragging a barely-conscious Skwisgaar from the dwindling rave and into the backseat of the Caddy, where he gently lay the blond down on the black leather and crouched over him on his knees, staring down at him. Even in a drug-induced state of hazy delirium, Skwisgaar was beautiful: his hair, yellow as gold, spread about his head and cascading in winding tendrils off the seat; his skin, white as cocaine, soft and cool and hugged tightly by his dark clothes; his blood, trickling from his nose from too much blow, red as sin.

Nathan leaned down and peeled off Skwisgaar's shirt, folding it carefully—as if it really mattered—and putting it in the front seat. The Swede, grateful for the cool air against his feverish flesh, slung his forearm over his eyes and sighed drowsily. The man drew his knife silently and stared down at the white chest beneath him, gently rising and falling, the shiny metal studs that pierced those rosy nipples gleaming in the faint light. Nathan placed his left hand over one, feeling the throb of the heart beneath it, the warmth of the skin, the softness.

The blade came down, its sharp point painlessly ghosting the area just to the right of Nathan's hand. The man gulped, blinked, sweated, trembled unsteadily. One move. One quick downward thrust and it would be done. He could do it in maybe 5 or 6 slices, providing that the steel would go through the bone easily enough. If he had to carve, it would take longer for the kid to die, and he might fight back. Sling blood. Scream. Wouldn't matter anyway. Nathan had towels in the back for the blood, could be useful for gags as well. Maybe he should gag him first, just in case…

A small bead of red-as-sin blood had formed where the tip of the blade was pressing into Skwisgaar's chest, and the blond suddenly lowered his arm and blinked sleepily, gazing up at Nathan. The big man froze in pure horror when those pretty blue eyes fell upon him, and he immediately lifted the knife and tossed it down onto the floor.

"I can't…I can't do it-!" he choked gruffly, eyes stinging with tears. "Forgive me, Skwisgaar. Forgive me…"

Skwisgaar, alarmed by such odd behavior, sat up and noticed the blood drop that ran down his chest. He touched it tentatively, then saw the shine of the knife on the floor of the car, and through his overdrugged mind he managed to put two and two together.

"He…sent yous to kills me, my stepfather dids," he said, and Nathan nodded.

"He wanted to kill you. For being the fastest guitarist alive," came the explanation. "Ordered me to bring your heart back. In that box." He pointed to the silver cigar box nearby, then hung his head. "I'm loyal to Toki…but I can't kill you, Skwisgaar. You're…still innocent. Never hurt anyone. Talented. Beautiful." He reached up and brushed his large hand against Skwisgaar's pale cheek. "But you can't go back home. Ever. Run away, Skwisgaar. Run away and never come back!"

Skwisgaar, fright magnified by the drugs coursing through his veins, somehow dragged himself over the side of the car and tumbled out into the alley.

"Leave L.A. right now," Nathan told him. "Call a cab. Get the first flight outta here. Change your name. Do whatever it takes."

"But…what's about yous?" Skwisgaar cried. "What's will you do ifs you goes back wisout my heart?"

"I'll thinka something," Nathan muttered, sliding in behind the wheel and shooting the Swede a glance. "Enjoy the rest of your life. It's yours now."

And just like that, he drove off and left Skwisgaar standing alone in the alley, shirtless and guitarless, in a part of town he was unfamiliar with, terrified and fucked up from all the drugs he'd taken. He staggered down the alley through the shadows, smashing into metal and wood and breaking glass, falling down and hardly being able to get himself back on his feet. His terror manifested hallucinations, and suddenly everything in the whole world was after his heart. They reached out with their claws, wanting to sink their daggers into his chest and rip the red jewel—drenched with blood and still thumping with fear—from his breast. Shadows closed in on him, cracked windows smiled down at him like glass devils, and the pounding of his heart did nothing but magnify their lust for his most vital of organs.

Trapped in this nightmarish wonderland, Skwisgaar began to run, fleeing from the horrors of an attempted murder, scratching his flesh on jagged ends of chain link and running into people who looked more like monsters than people: red-eyed, shadowed, beastly, grinning at him like Death. He saw a dead hooker in a dumpster who turned into his mother, the grey-skinned, rotting corpse of the Cocaine Queen who grinned maggots and reached out to grab her son and pull him into the garbage-coffin with her. Skwisgaar dodged with a scream and sobbed as he ran onward. The alleys were a giant maze and he was a small mouse, turning one corner and then another, not knowing if the next change in direction would lead him to salvation or to a hungry, coiled snake.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Skwisgaar was too tired to take another step and collapsed where he stood, right into a stack of cardboard boxes that smelled like cat piss. A few moments later the battered back door of one of the buildings banged open and a cigarette-puffing redhead stepped out into the shadows.

"Ey! Who's there? I swear t' Gad if it's one 'a you damn cats again I'm gonna go down t' Sancho's TANIGHT n' buy me a freakin' SHOTGUN n' start blowin' buckshot in yer raggedy-"

A low moan in the nearby pile of cardboard halted his rant, and after moving a few boxes out of the way, he peered down in astonishment at a very attractive blonde chick who was passed out and…wait a sec. Was that a _dude_? It _was_. And he looked seriously messed up. The redhead crouched down to inspect the pretty boy and discovered that he had probably OD'd on cocaine, evident by the blood trickling from his nose. Looking closer he also saw the powdery white residue clinging to the long strands of blond hair. The stranger frowned, reaching out to collect a bit of the coke on his fingers, then gazed down at it meditatively for a few moments.

"I'll be damned," he muttered. "This's the stuff."

Wedging his cigarette between his lips, the redhead leaned down and grabbed Pretty Boy by the arms and dragged him inside the building. The door slammed shut and locked behind him.

_To Be Continued..._


	2. Never Go Back

When Skwisgaar awoke two days later, he thought he had died and gone to Hell. That was the only reason to account for the ungodly heat. He sat up weakly, finding himself completely naked and lying in grungy motel bathtub filled with murky water. His arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably, and when he tried to get on his feet he promptly slipped, fell over, grabbed the mouldy shower curtain on his way to the floor, tore the whole bar and everything down, and smashed into the toilet.

A few moments later the chain-smoking redhead appeared in the doorway, dressed in dirty slacks, a ratty wife beater and an unbuckled shoulder holster, and watched with amusement as Skwisgaar crawled to his knees.

"Mornin', Hollywood," he said. "Thought ya weren't gonna make it there fer a while."

"Where's…are I?" the Swede moaned, clutching the toilet bowl for support. His skull felt as if it had an axe lodged in it—he reached up to check for a hatchet or something but found nothing.

"Yer safe n' that's all that matters," said the stranger, tapping his ashes into the bathroom sink. He tossed a towel to Skwisgaar and then leaned against the doorframe. "Y' almost died back there, Holly. Was a lucky thing me n' my partner found ya when we did. Yer organs coulda been on their way to in styrofoam boxes by now."

Skwisgaar rose unsteadily to his feet and wrapped the towel around his waist. He raised his head slowly, eyes ringed with dark circles and his skin blanched like a corpse's. "Who are yous?" he whispered.

A bright, shiny badge was suddenly flashed and Skwisgaar lost his balance, toppling backwards onto the floor in shock.

"Special Agent Patrick O'Doyle, FBI," came the methodic tone. "Call me 'Pickles'."

The Swede stifled his urge to vomit at the mention of food but found it to be in vain; luckily the toilet wasn't too far away and he emptied his guts into the grungy porcelain while Agent Pickles looked on without batting an eyelash.

"Yer some kinda fucked up, Holly," he murmured, "but me n' my partner 'r gonna help ya. Then yer gonna help us. Fair n' square, yanno. Whadda ya think?" Puff. "We gotta deal?"

Skwisgaar slumped against the toilet and nodded faintly. Right now he was too sick to care about anything other than his own survival. "Ja," he croaked. "We gots a deals."

Pickles nodded as if he'd been expecting the kid's cooperation all along, and then helped him to his feet, limped him out of the bathroom and gave him some clothes to put on. Skwisgaar pulled on a pair of whitewashed jeans that were too big for him and a Rusty Wallace NASCAR t-shirt that he would have to be wasted to the point of death to wear. And considering that he had been wasted to the point of death, wore it without complaint. Then he curled up into a ball on one of the beds and tried to keep himself from shaking. His teeth were chattering like Vegas dice on a Saturday night.

Pickles sat down on the opposite bed and ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table. "Ken I get ya anything, Holly? Coffee, water, tequila…"

"Ice," Skwisgaar mumbled. "Just…ice."

"Okay," said the agent, "but first I need ta know somethin'. How'd a nice guy like you end up inna nasty parta town like that?"

Skwisgaar winced, not wanting to be interrogated right now. "…I don't remembers."

"Ya remember Snow White though, right?"

The Swede's heart skipped a beat and he suddenly became more attentive. He slowly lifted his pale face from the faintly mildewed coverlet. "How's do yous know about dat?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come ta it, don't worry Holly, jest tell me what happened n' then y'll get yer ice."

Skwisgaar, head pounding like a double-kick, shut his eyes tight and pressed his face into the stale-smelling sheets, as if pushing his head straight through into the mattress springs would alleviate the throbbing pain. "It's were a set-ups," he groaned. "De drugs…guitars. Dey tries to kill me's. Fucking…steps-father. Cut outs my heart and puts it in a box. I got aways and I's run…run and run. Still alifes…still…de fastest…" He trailed off and could say no more. His head was splitting and he wanted to throw up again, but he knew there was nothing left in him to heave.

Pickles seemed satisfied by this information and got up to go to the lobby, picking up an empty ice bucket along the way. He found his fellow agent at a small table, cigar wedged between the gap in his front teeth, playing solitaire with a deck of 51. The ceiling fan did little to stifle the heat of the room, and Pickles slid into the chair across from his partner.

"How'zsh he doing?" asked the mustachioed cigarist, studying his cards.

"Better. Woke up a li'l while ago, not sayin' much. Withdrawal, yanno."

"Ya get anything yooshful outta him?"

"Yeah. M' pretty sure he's got some kinda connection to th' industry. Says someone tried ta kill 'im, stepfather or somebody. Seems pretty naïve ta be involved in this operation, if it weren't fer th' hair."

"Hair?"

"Eh. Long. Kinda girly. I think he's one 'a those metalheads. _You_ saw th' shit he was wearin'. An' he's got calluses on his fingers. I'm guessin' he's some kinda guitarist. Sounds Dutch 'r somethin', yanno, real thick accent. Maybe he's a turncoat to th' industry, that'd explain someone tryin' ta off 'im. Kid's been through a lot." For a fleeting moment Pickles looked sympathetic, and his partner caught it.

"Don't jump to conclushionsh, O'Doyle," he muttered, laying down a card. "Theshe people are all the shame: fuckin' bottom-feeding schit-a-th'-earth shcumball druggiezsh who'll cack their own mom for another hit. Don't wayshte yer time feelin' shawry for 'em."

"I know I know," Pickles muttered, annoyed. "Fer Chrissake I'm not fallin' in love with th' guy 'r anything. I'm jest sayin', if we keep 'im around long enough instead 'a throwin' him inta th' state pen like _you_ wanted, maybe we ken squeeze some names outta him. Act nice, yanno, gain his trust. We might could use it. An' if he's who I think he is, you an' me 'r finally gonna blow this Snow White business right outta th' water."

* * *

It turned out that Skwisgaar had been taken from the dangerzone of L.A. to the outskirts of a small desert town called _Siete Menas,_ a.k.a. Seven Ores, not far from the Nevada-Cali line. It was a bustling mining town once-upon-a-time, but when the gold and silver ran out and the land had scarred like lacerated flesh wounds, the only ore left to reap was a small bit of oil. The massive rigs still cast their shadows of perpetual motion across the flat horizon, and this is where the few remaining citizens of Seven Ores plied their trades. A rundown motel off the main highway served as home base of operations for two undercover federal agents and now the fastest guitarist alive. They never asked him his name, but called him "Hollywood". Probably because of his platinum blond Barbie hair. They had a thing for nicknames, it seemed.

It took about three days for Skwisgaar to fully recover from his close brush with death, but the two men to whom he owed his life seemed to view it as merely a job that had to be done. Agent William "Murderface" Murdoch was particularly gruff and unfriendly, but Pickles assured Skwisgaar that his partner was a chronically hateful son-of-a-bitch and that anything he ranted about wasn't to be taken personally. Murderface was the veteran of the duo, had worked more high profile drug cases than he had pairs of clean underwear, and was a notorious hardass who preferred being "out in the field" rather than back at the Bureau. Pickles had a decent number of cases under his belt and was by no means a rookie, yet he didn't seem to be in as much danger of spending the rest of his life as a complete bastard.

But the agents' attitudes couldn't be helped, really; they were on month 21 of their assignment to rein in the drug lords responsible for trafficking a new brand of cocaine that was twice as dangerous as the regular dope. "It's wicked shit, Holly," Pickles said to Skwisgaar one night as they smoked cigarettes and watched _Hawaii Five-O_ reruns. "Laced with all kindsa poisons, spiked like a Tennessee prom punch. Ya can tell it from everything else 'cuzza th' way it glitters. Like snow, yanno. Snow White. It's killin' people. Young people. Kids n' all that, dumb teens who don't know better. Me n' Murderface, we think we're gettin' close. Somewhere in L.A., we think…but it's a huge business. Scary business. Like ass-on-th'-line scary. No one'll say anything, not even th' cops. Our options're runnin' out, n' we need a lead like yesterday..."

Skwisgaar felt sick to his stomach as he listened to Pickles' words, and knew that the only way he could repay these nice feds for saving his life was to be a rat and tell them everything. But Skwisgaar wasn't stupid. He knew what happened to rats—they went for a ride in the family Rolls and never came back. Or they ran to Mexico, and a phone call later met up with the Valenzuelas, one of the Skwigelfs' finest clients. No one ever got away once they sang. And for someone in the family to betray another—if _Skwisgaar_, son of the Cocaine Queen herself, were to tempt the wrath of his already psychotic, murderous stepfather—the punishment would be a thousand times worse than any car ride or trip south of the border. Toki knew things, sick things, methods of torture, ways to keep people alive when they should be dead, and his madness only made him more powerful. That gruesome heart-carving murder attempt was just a sample of the guy's sadistic nature. The thought of Toki Wartooth finding him alive, or finding out that he had leaked info to the feds, filled Skwisgaar with a brand of terror that muted his tongue against any confession.

The blond stubbed out his cigarette and wrapped his arms around himself in an unconscious defence mechanism. It was the only way he had ever found comfort. Not a hand had touched him nor arm had held him that had ever truly loved him. And out here in the middle of the fucking desert, trapped in some shithole motel with a couple guys who were probably going to send him to the big house, Skwisgaar had never felt so alone and unwanted in all his life.

* * *

On the second storey overlooking the pool, in an expensively decorated office, behind a polished shiny desk that occasionally wore fine white lines, in the lower right hand drawer that was always locked, beside the same gun that had a year earlier screamed "long live the queen", was a silver cigar box that held a pig's heart. Toki would open it up from time to time and smile at the putrefying organ, oblivious to the treachery his most loyal servant had committed, still believing that he was the fastest guitarist alive.

* * *

The days were long and hot in the desert. The agents took care of Skwisgaar for the most part, made the crummy motel as good a home as they could manage, but whenever they went to L.A. to run down leads and tap phone lines, Skwisgaar was left by himself for sometimes days on end. Pickles had warned him to stay low while they were gone, but Skwisgaar didn't need to be told that; he didn't want to be found out any more than the agents wanted to lose their golden link in some tragic act of retribution.

Boredom was the biggest obstacle to overcome. Much of Skwisgaar's day was spent at the motel, watching daytime TV and sucking down ice cubes or wandering around the desert, kicking at cacti, challenging rattlesnakes and seeking shelter in the shade of the groaning oil rigs, which stood out on the horizon like a herd of grazing dinosaurs.

The sun was brutal, _lethal_, out here. Skwisgaar's pale Scandinavian skin turned red, burnt, peeled, turned white again, and so on. Tan didn't stick to him at all. No, his skin was and would always be white as cocaine. To save his face from the UV he took to wearing a mangled cowboy hat woven out of straw. He had found it in one of the empty motel rooms and Javier, the wrinkled, sun-scarred old man who owned the place, let him keep it.

The ramshackle town was too far a walk during the heat of the day, but sometimes Skwisgaar would wander in around sundown, visit the local pub for a few hours and shoot a game of pool by himself. He missed L.A. He missed the clubs. He missed his wealth. He missed his guitar and his groupies and his fame. He missed his life, as miserable as it had been—it was a hell of a lot better than this. He wasn't used to this kind of desolation; he was raised in a crowd. Faceless strangers clustered around him made him feel secure. They were his surrogate family. He liked their mob mentality and their drugs and their horny girls. Seven Ores was like the surface of Mars in comparison. Here he felt cut off and vulnerable, lost and forgotten. He was in danger, alone like this. He needed the pack.

But he could never go back to the pack. He could never be seen again. He was nameless now, nothing but a memory. He really was dead. This was Death. This really was Hell. Hell is obscurity, and Skwisgaar was living it.

On most nights, sleepless and afraid, he would sit out under the dark blue sky, just outside his motel room, and smoke or drink beer. Sometimes both. The miles of dirt and sand around him were silent, and the only sound came from the battered TV just through the open door of his room. He would stare up at the stars and wonder about them. He found himself liking them, lonely pretty things like himself.

Funny. He'd never seen them in L.A.

* * *

The weeks were starting to run together like a bad dream when Skwisgaar came back from town early one evening and discovered Agent Pickles smoking lazily out on the front walk, waiting for him. He tossed his cigarette when Skwisgaar approached and grinned slightly, red goatee arching in a friendly way. Skwisgaar sat on the step beside him and said nothing, knowing that soon the silence would be filled by the agent's Wisconsinish drawl.

"We gotta hit t'day," said Pickles conversationally, "found a rat in South L.A., runnin' for it. We took 'im in fer questioning n' left 'im with th' cops while Murderface n' me traced th' guy's route. We come back later to a body bag n' a crime scene. Offed in his own cell with a 9 mil, filled 'im with enough lead t' make a pencil out've 'im."

Skwisgaar felt his posture sinking, as if the words were weights being placed on his shoulders. They filled him with that vague feeling of low-key terror that was all the more terrible because it was the truth.

Pickles went on calmly, "Cops didn't notice th' perp till it was too late. Getaway car waitin' outside. Smooth operation. In, bam, out." He stared out across the barren twilight desert and sighed. "No matter what we do're how close we get, these guys're always one fuckin' step ahead of us. I don't know how they do it, Holly. I jest don't know."

Pickles took a swig out of the beer sitting on the other side of him and sucked in one of those suffering heroic "what's done is done" breaths through his teeth. Then he sighed and the heavy subject was forgotten.

"Saw somethin' t'day that made me think 'a ya. Yer prob'ly gonna hate it, but at least it'll help pass th' time."

Skwisgaar turned. "What its is?"

Pickles jerked his head behind him. "See fer yerself. I left it in yer room in case ya stayed out late."

Something light and cheerful fluttered inside Skwisgaar's belly, a pleasant feeling that he hadn't felt for a long time, and he stood to his feet quickly, went to his room. Pickles remained where he was, smiling to himself. A few moments later Skwisgaar came trudging outside and plopped down next to the agent. He wasn't smiling, though his reaction made Pickles chuckle.

Skwisgaar held in his hands a secondhand banjo.

"Dis thing is dildos," he muttered.

"Ya haven't even tried it yet."

"I is not wantings to. It's is a stupid grandpa's guitars."

"It ain't a guitar, Holly."

"It's looking like it, a dumb lollipop ones dat's half a snare drums." Skwisgaar tapped the body to produce the drum sound. "Only de peoples wis red neck and no tooths froms de Sows plays dis."

"That ain't true," Pickles said defencively. "My gran'dad was full-blooded Irish n' he could tear th' banjo better'n any redneck. He even taught me how t' play a bit."

"Good, den you's use it," Skwisgaar pouted, passing the banjo to Pickles.

"Yer such a pussy," tsked the agent, plucking the strings experimentally and adjusting the tuning pegs. "I'll show ya whatcha can do with this thing, n' then you'll like it."

"Pffft."

Pling plong. "…kay, I think it's in tune." Pling pling. "Hope I remember how t' do this..." Pong pong pling pong. "Mmm…okay. Got it."

And then Pickles, the boring-ass federal agent with scraggly red hair, started to play a lively old Irish folksong. Skwisgaar sat up in surprise when he heard how fast the notes changed, and saw how skillfully the player's fingers were moving. It was a delight and an insult to the Swede's heavy metal soul at the same time, like some kind of ancient electric guitar. It really didn't sound that bad, if you could forget about the stereotypical hillbilly label attached to it. In fact, if it could be tuned to maybe a D minor, modified to a black body, the steel hardware detailed with skulls and dragons, and outfitted with a killer strap…

For the first time since he had been taken to this wasteland, Skwisgaar smiled. Pickles looked up and saw it, and he smiled too.

"Well…ya get th' picture," he said, handing the banjo to Skwisgaar, who said—though somewhat shyly—for the first time in his lifelong musical career, "Teach me how's to plays likes dat?"

And Pickles agreed.

* * *

Soon the banjo lessons were paying off, what little time Pickles could spare to teach. Skwisgaar took to it like a drug habit and soon he was making trips to town to show off his skills to the townsfolk, breathing a little bit of excitement into their dull, dusty lives. He had soon become the town's most beloved son. He took requests, did some fantastic covers, and a few weeks later even earned a photo and a big fat column on the front page of the Seven Ores newspaper, which was really only a 4 page publication and limited to 30 copies. Pickles was genuinely glad for Skwisgaar, and since the paper was so small and never left the city limits he harboured no worries for the Swede being discovered. But just to be safe, Pickles had the writers change the printed name to Garth Squiggly.

But we all know this story, and we all know that something's going to fuck up sooner or later. So here follows the chain of events that caused the story to fuck up:

Mr Garcia ran the town's only gas station and was a particularly big fan of Skwisgaar's, and bought several copies to stock his magazine rack. Over the next few days a couple truckers passed through to refuel and unload, and needed fine literature to read on the crapper. Most of the time that's where the paper would stay, but one trucker in particular took an interest in the crossword and decided to bring the paper with him.

Said trucker worked at a furniture distribution centre in L.A., and left the creased paper bearing his finished crossword at the loading bay. There was a big delivery to be made to a Beverly Hills address, and by coincidence one of the staples on the cardboard boxes had given out due to a piece of glass chafing the box, and was partially sticking out. One of the workers grabbed a nearby newspaper, stuffed it in, and stapled it shut again.

The delivery was made to Bev Hills, and since the owners were environmentally conscious, they decided to recycle the packing contents of their new furniture.

The crumpled paper sat at the bottom of the recycling bin until Tuesday, then the recycling truck dumped in the contents and drove off through the other high class burbs in L.A. to do their rounds. They didn't notice that some of the trash was half-pinned in the compactor, and soon enough it had torn free and was left in the road behind them, sticky with who the hell knows what.

A car drove over it, the clump of mangled papers got stuck to the tyre, dislodged and got blown into the undercarriage, where it rode for a few miles before falling free again. Then the hot L.A. breeze carried it through the security gate onto somebody's manicured green lawn. One of the yard maintenance guys picked it up and tossed it onto the top of the pile in the recycling bin, which was kept just outside the 5-car garage. That night the owner's manservant came out to deliver some large booze bottles to the bin, took one look at the greasy, wrinkled, dishevelled front page of the Seven Ores newspaper, and dropped everything he was holding.

Shattering glass broke the still night air like gunshots. That man was Big Nate, and when he saw the banjo-bearing, cowboy hat wearing, NASCAR shirt-clad but familiar face of Skwisgaar Skwigelf smiling up at him, he went whiter than the Swede himself.

Nathan grabbed the paper and went out to the back yard to light it on fire and dispose of it, but his boss just so happened to be in the back yard playing putt-putt with his favourite groupies. Toki called to his bodyguard to come over and watch this putt, and Nathan nearly panicked. Nearly. He kept his cool, wadded the paper in his big fist, and hoped that Toki wouldn't ask. Surprise, he did.

"What this here?" the Norwegian queried, pointing to Nathan's clenched hand.

"Stress relief," Big Nate grunted.

"Lets me sees it."

Nathan was dumb but he was obedient, and he opened his fist and allowed Toki to unfold the crinkled paper. A few seconds later he let out a low, sputtering scream as his face turned dark red with rage. He glared up at Big Nate, then back down at the paper, Nate, the paper, and so on and so forth until he finally detonated like a bomb.

"How possible this is!?" he demanded to his servant. "You kills that brat months ago! You cuts out his heart and giffs it to me! Is up in dat box, right? RIGHT!?"

Nathan said nothing, but hung his head in answer.

Toki's jaw dropped in shock. "YOU _DECEIF_ ME!" he screamed, as if even he couldn't believe it. "HOW COULDS YOU DOES THIS TO ME!?" The groupies scattered like roaches.

There was, again, no response.

Toki took a slow, collective breath inward. "So…de sons of a dead bitch is still alife?"

Nathan nodded.

Toki, calm again though face still red, looked down at the paper. "Seven Ores. Okay. I thinks I has a job for de Doctor. He cans fix this problem."

Big Nate blanched and gulped loudly. "No. Not him. You…you can't."

"Oh hoho, yes I cans," Toki uttered, staring venomously at his bodyguard. "Since you isn't man enoughs for de job, den I gets someone else to do its. De Doctor alway makes house call."

* * *

The Doctor, as he was called, wasn't really a doctor at all. He was a clown. A rock n' roll clown. He did cocaine, and that was how he was paid for his services. He was perhaps the scariest clown on earth; he wore a skin tight, revealing neon-colored spandex jump suit, combat boots, a huge wig, a black leather biker hat, all of the clown makeup, foam nose and all, and a spiky dog collar. He spoke in screams like a shrieking Mississippi grandma. His brain was full of holes from drug use, he was sociopathic, manic depressive, passive aggressive, coercive, a registered sex offender, extremely violent, and occasionally available for parties. But he was mainly a hit man, murder-for-hire. And he was the man that Toki called when he needed to put out a hit. No one ever expects a killer clown. Besides, Toki liked the guy. He made him laugh.

"Dr Rockso," he said on his cell phone, "I has a job for you…"

Nathan could only stand outside his master's door and listen passively to the plans to snuff the life out of the one he had tried to save. There was nothing he could do now. He was in the dog house. Toki probably had some horrible punishment waiting for him after Skwisgaar was taken care of. Sure, Nate was nearly twice Toki's size, but the little guy was meaner than hell and he had a lot of fight and power in him. Nobody fucked with Toki Wartooth.

And that was a lesson that Skwisgaar was going to learn.

_ To Be Continued..._


	3. Death Brings Friends

It had been a pretty good week for Skwisgaar so far. His banjo performances had become a nightly occasion down at the old bar, and there always seemed to be more people every night, people he didn't recognize as Seven Ores residents. True, most of them were grizzled old-timers who had no idea what metal or a _Hellrider_ cover sounded like, but they were fans all the same and Skwisgaar liked being bought beer afterwards. They were a pretty okay bunch.

He got a ride back to the motel that night, bid his adieus to the leathery Jiacomo brothers, and prepared to have a nice sleep. He had drunk a bit much that night and was feeling bleary and uncoordinated, so when his door was kicked down at 3 a.m. and the howling mad Dr Rockso came crashing in with a whirling length of chain in his hands, Skwisgaar was completely unprepared and totally helpless.

With a high-pitched squeal and a pelvic gyration came the introduction: "I'M DOCTA ROCKSO, THA ROCK N' ROLL CLOW~WN! I DO COCA~AINE!"

This was the last thing Skwisgaar was expecting, and the scariest thing he had ever seen. He jumped to his feet and wobbled, unsure of what to do. Rockso caught him in the temple with a flick of the chain, and Skwisgaar went down. By the time he had regained his senses Rockso was behind him, trapping the Swede between his massive spandex thighs, and pulling the chain tight around that white neck.

Skwisgaar grasped the chain in both hands and tried to ease the pressure to no avail; it was already too tight against his throat to intercept the metal with his fingers. Skin pinched between the links and bled. The pain wasn't bad, but the instinct to breathe was killer. Windpipes and vocal cords and other tender pink ductwork failed to bring oxygen to the rest of his body. It began to shut down. Skwisgaar sputtered, struggled, scratched, kicked, fought for air, but Rockso was too strong. In one minute his face had gone light purple and the world was getting smaller and black-fuzzy around the edges, splotching in soft, comforting bursts of dark blue.

The clown laughed at the sport. "Just die already, brutha! Save us some time!"

Skwisgaar decided, with the situation hopeless and his world disappearing, that maybe it was best if he listened. So he closed his eyes and went away from it all. Rockso felt the body go limp and he waited a bit longer, then loosened the chain, stood up, and looked down at his victim.

"Too bad you WASN'T a chica, man! We coulda had us some fu~un!"

And with a tip of his cap, he took his chain and left the scene of the crime. A few moments later his chopper revved to life, a ridiculous horn blared a few bars of _The Mexican Hat Dance_, and the Doctor sped off into the night, task completed.

* * *

Pickles and Murderface, driving back from L.A. in a dried-vomit-yellow El Camino with ghetto rust spots, passed Rockso on the highway, doing about 85 and laughing maniacally. Probably swallowing moths.

"Holee shit," moaned Pickles, glancing in the cracked rearview mirror. "Was thatta _clown_?"

Murderface shuddered and said, "I think sho. I hate thoshe fuckersh but…shumthin' about _that_ one makesh me _really_ shick."

Ten minutes later they arrived at the motel, noticed the busted door to Skwisgaar's room, and rushed in to find their chief witness and precious link to The Business sprawled on the floor with his long goldish hair spread out like a fan and his face tinted a pale bluish purple round the edges.

"Aw _fuck_!" Murderface swore, cigar dropping from his mouth.

Pickles didn't say a word. Just darted over beside Skwisgaar, fell to his knees, and pressed two fingers to the bruised neck. One pause, two.

"He's still alive," Pickles muttered. "He's still alive!"

He locked one hand on top of the other on Skwisgaar's chest, and began to count aloud and thrust. Murderface dashed away as fast as an overweight federal agent can dash while Pickles attempted to resuscitate Skwisgaar. All kinds of thoughts were flashing through his mind: Who did this, one-two, why did they do this, _ how_ could they do this, three-four, what had the kid ever done to deserve this, don't let him die, don't let 'im die, one-two, please live Holly c'mon please live please don't die Holly-

Pickles pinched Skwisgaar's nose and brought his lips down to his mouth, forcing air into him and then continuing with the chest-pumping.

"Fuckin' wake up, Hollywood," the agent muttered. "Ya don't got permission t' die yet. Do that on yer own time, but right now yer on mine n' I'm not gonna fuckin' lose ya like this. Fuckin' wake up. I need ya. I need ya. Wake up, Holly…"

And then, like nothing had happened at all, Skwisgaar opened his eyes and let out a cough. Never had those half-glazed, bloodshot blue things looked prettier. Pickles stopped and broke into a relieved grin, releasing a huge sigh. "Jesus Christ, Holly. I mean _Jesus Christ_."

Murderface came dashing back into the room, saw Skwisgaar sit up and exclaimed, "Jeshush Chrisht!"

"It's…" the Swede rasped in a hoary whisper, "is startsing to…sound likes de church in heres."

Pickles began to chuckle while Murderface sputtered madly. "You shtoopid shunnuva _bitch_! You shkared the fuckin' crap outta us! An' that fuckin' clown that tried to kill you wuzsh even shkarier!"

"Wait a sec, you mean…?"

"Motorshykle tracks in the parking lot," said Murderface lowly. "We shaw that freaky bashtard azsh he wuzsh leaving. Attempted homishide."

Pickles helped Skwisgaar off the floor and onto the bed. "Take it easy there, Holly. There ya go. Murderface, get some water n' ice…ya feelin' okay, Hol?"

Skwisgaar coughed. "Somes creepy clown's try to choke me wis a chain, Pickle. No, I is not feeling okay."

"My bad," Pickles murmured. He touched the bleeding bruise on the blond's temple. "Don't worry. We'll find out who did this n' make th' motherfucker pay. I'll see to it personally. I'm gonna go get somethin' ta wrap yer head with, so stay right there. We'll get this all sorted out."

He stood to his feet to leave, but Skwisgaar grabbed him by the wrist. "Don'ts leafs," came the soft whisper. "I don'ts want to be lone."

Pickles sat back down on the bed and waited for Murderface to get back. The two agents tended to Skwisgaar's wounds, received a full account of the evening, and Pickles let the Swede sleep in his room that night. He fell asleep in a chair, a full clip loaded in his pistol and the safety off. Just in case a posse of insane clowns should return to the scene to finish what they had started.

* * *

The story of Skwisgaar's encounter with a chain-wielding, spandex-clad madman made the front cover of the Seven Ores newspaper again, though this time a big stupid-looking hulk of muscle with long black hair stopped at Mr Garcia's gas station to buy a copy. Then he got back in his Cadillac and rode to L.A. to deliver the joyous news to his boss.

"Fucking clowns," Toki snapped behind watering eyes, dropping the rolled Benjamin onto his desk and rubbing his nose. "Dr Rockso never faileds me until now." He sighed, swiveling in his leather executive chair and looking quite like a kid. Nathan was glad his master had been doing lines for most of the afternoon—he could handle bad news a whole lot better when he was high.

After a few moments of intense thought, Toki swung his chair around to face his bodyguard. "Calls Ofdensen at de studio. Tells him to gets me in touch with Magic Ears. I think he still has a favor he owe me."

* * *

Dick "Magic Ears" Knubbler was a real piece of work. Tax evasion, disfigured a co-worker at an office party (melted her face with acid), soliciting prostitution, drugs, quite possibly a 25-year sentence. He was scrawny and lanky and chinless and he had a smile that would scare a shark. A psychopathic, psychedelic flower child who turned in his post-hippie days to studying poisonous mushrooms and psychotropic acids, he became a record producer as a day job and an international fountainhead of chemical espionage on the side. He was The Spy Who Drugged Me. He knew exactly 4,891 ways to poison a person; 3,055 ways to do it covertly, and how to do it in all four states of matter. He knew in what amounts these 4,891 ways were required to kill a man, woman, or child, and his idea of relaxation was downing a bag of pop rocks with a cola chaser. He had lost his eyes—yes, eyeballs—in a nuclear radiation leak and had had them replaced with electronic telescopic computer lenses wired to his brain. He could see everything, which came in handy for his side job.

Knubbler was badly-dressed and quirky but a pretty swell guy as long as you didn't piss him off. He owed Toki Wartooth a favor for lending him a Snowy bargaining chip not too long ago, and today Toki called in his favor. He gave Knubbler an address and instructions, and told him to use twice the recommended dosage. Just in case the headache persisted.

* * *

The link-shaped bruises on Skwisgaar's neck were beginning to fade by the time the agents felt that it was okay to leave him by himself again. They told Javier to call their cell phones if any suspicious people showed up; Javier agreed and they went on their way to L.A. to chase down some answers and investigate Skwisgaar's case.

The Swede knew, somehow, that the clown had had a purpose. Somebody had sent him, and he seemed exactly the type of character who would be in association with Toki Wartooth. Birds of a feather flocked together—one crazy murdering bastard deserves another. How Toki had discovered him he knew not, but Skwisgaar kept his door bolted and windows locked and shades drawn and didn't venture out after dark while the men with guns were away. Bad things always happened in the night, where no one could see them happening. That's what had happened last time, so Skwisgaar wasn't expecting his next attack to happen during the broad daylight.

The agents were due back that night and so Skwisgaar was feeling at ease, and decided that since nothing had happened to him all this time that maybe it was okay to let the windows open and get some of that fresh desert air. He was lounged comfortably on the bed, practicing some new techniques with his banjo, when he was suddenly distracted by a noise at the window. Thinking (and correctly) that it might be some mercenary about to smash his way through, Skwisgaar quietly set his banjo on the bed, went to the door—the only other exit—and turned the knob, pulling it open slowly and making his escape.

The device rigged to the door was triggered by the angle of its opening, and a nozzle swung out into Skwisgaar's face, spraying him with a paralyzing neurotoxin. He took two steps backwards and fell to the floor, and Dick Knubbler stuck his head in through the window.

"Yo," he said in a cheerful, nasally voice. "Don't try to fight it, man. It's got a groovy afterglow you'll really like."

The dweeby looking villain causally unlatched the window and set a silver attaché case—the kind that any master spy carriers—inside the room, and crawled in. He made his way to the groaning, motionless Swede.

"Sucks to be you, huh? Nyehh heh heh! Oh well. C'mon, let's make this quick. I've gotta meet with the label in San Fran in three hours and I can't spend all day killing you."

In his mind Skwisgaar was screaming and fighting and thrashing, but outside in reality he remained still, paralyzed from the neck down by the fast-acting drug he'd been sprayed with. Knubbler dragged him onto the bed with much effort, laid him out neatly and made him comfortable, then opened his attaché case and began preparing a hypodermic needle, filling it with a blue liquid from a small bottle.

Skwisgaar could see everything. He was watching his own death be prepared for him, and there was nothing he could do to intervene. He couldn't move, couldn't fight. He could only watch and wait. Every second and every breath he took was counted dearly, and the higher the numbers went the faster his heart began to beat. Skwisgaar didn't want to die. He wanted to live. But he had no choice now. It was taken from him. Well, he thought, if he was going to die then he at least wanted to know the truth before he went.

"My steps-father send you's, didn'ts he?" he stammered quietly.

Knubbler tapped the needle. "Right-o," he answered brightly in that obnoxious voice of his. "Just got the call on Monday. Since that coke-crazy clown failed in choking you to death, Mr Wartooth thought he'd bring in the big guns this time, nyehh heh. Kay now, hold still while I jab you."

"Wait!" cried Skwisgaar. "It's is too early! Let's me-! Just giffs me one second-!"

"Relax, man, this isn't gonna kill you."

"…it's not?"

"Nyeh, this is just a mild hallucinogen with some diazepam to kill the vomit reflex. It's a new thing I'm testing. The shrooms are what's gonna kill you."

Knubbler gleefully stuck the needle in Skwisgaar's arm and shot the blue stuff into his veins. In a matter of seconds Skwisgaar's pupils were wide open black and he was seeing things like cacti made of musical glass sprouting tiny banjos instead of spines, and burning red-orange grains of desert sand that were really individual suns in individual galaxies all burning and churning and whirling at once. And then a single-file train of chattering little bread umbrellas started chugging away from him, and Skwisgaar chased them across the surface of his firework-sparking, glitter-sand encrusted brain until he caught the caboose umbrella and ate it whole, and it was still kicking and screaming when it went down his throat but he knew somehow that he had to eat more or else all the pretty things would run away from him and he'd be alone alone all all alone…

But he caught the train to Australia and ate every umbrella, like a good boy. Yes, now everything was fine again. The sun fizzled out and a gooey warm lava-light darkness came, and the banjo-cacti pling-plinged for Skwisgaar as he lay on the warm sun-sand and felt the umbrellas turning into sparkly things inside him.

But then bits of nastiness started to interrupt the peace, like flashes of blaring loud static on a TV when the channel signal is fading, only this wasn't like static—it was pictures of ceilings and floors and glass bottles and weird faces, and they brought feelings of horrific pain with them. These bursts became more and more frequent until finally there was one long flash that didn't go away, and this was when Skwisgaar woke up.

Murderface was in front of him, forcing tequila down his throat while Pickles was behind Skwisgaar, arms wrapped around his middle, and giving the Heimlich Maneuver for all he was worth. The impacts were sickening.

"S-stop!" Skwisgaar cried, then he felt the vomit rushing up his esophagus and all he could say after that was "Hhrrauuuugehhhhrr!"

Deadly half-digested shrooms poured out into a putrid brown puddle on the carpet, and Skwisgaar was sure that he had just puked out his own guts. The two agents relentlessly continued this treatment until Skwisgaar had nothing left to throw up. Pickles laid him out on the bed, cleaned up his face, and then set to work forcing cup after cup of water between his lips. The pure liquid soothed his burning throat and quenched his thirst. In about an hour, unable to down another cup, Skwisgaar had passed into a deep but harmless slumber.

Pickles sat on the bed and held his head in his shaking hands, exhausted and heart still slamming.

"Awright," Murderface grunted in the silence, staring down at the shroom and tequila mess on the floor. "I think we've overshtayed our welcome. It'sh not shafe here anymore, Picklesh. You know what we hafta do." There was a dramatic pause. "Inquishishun time."

"What?"

"Beat it outta him," Murderface repeated matter-of-factly.

Pickles looked alarmed.

"You know he'sh hiding shumthing. He knowsh thingzsh an' he ain't tellin' ush nuthin'."

"That don't mean we-"

"The only way to make 'im talk ish to do it old shkool shtyle."

"We're not doin' that."

"We'll break hizh toesh firsht."

"We're not breakin' his anything!"

"Then WHAT? Faysh it, Picklesh! The idiot hashn't helped ush one fuckin' bit. Yer just keepin' him around 'cuzsh you like 'im."

"So?"

"SHO?"

"_So_?"

Murderface scowled. It was like watching a storm build in the mountains. "Yer bein' nice to 'im hashn't made 'im wanna tell ush nuthin'. We're no better off than we were shix monthsh ago."

"Jest give 'im time, fer Chrissake!" Pickles said in a harassed tone.

"He won't betray the Bizshnesh."

"Well he's scared t' death to!"

"He'sh worfless."

"He's an asset!"

"He'sh a LIABILITY."

Silence fell. The truth had been told. Murderface had won but he was anything but triumphant. Seeing the look of anguish on Pickles' face had killed any sense of enjoyment out of winning the argument. Murderface felt it a little of it himself. Skwisgaar had grown on them both, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

"Think about it, O' Doyle," he muttered.

And he left Pickles keeping vigil over the sleeping Swede.

* * *

Sunrise crept up on the small desert town of Seven Ores, and Skwisgaar woke to the sound of shuffling and zippers. He sat up in bed and saw his two rescuers gathering things like equipment and clothes and putting them into duffel bags. The blond blinked blearily and rubbed his eyes.

"Pickle? Myurgolfice? You's are going to somewheres?"

Murderface muttered something under his breath that sounded like a smartass comment, but Pickles paused in his packing to go sit beside Skwisgaar.

"Holly," he said, "it's not safe here fer us anymore. Or fer you. We're packin' it in." He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. "We came back last night n' found ya unconscious, two minutes from dead. We found this-" He held up a bit of brownish grey something between his thumb and forefinger. "-on th' floor."

"Yah. I was poison, Pickle," Skwisgaar murmured. "Some guy try to kills me wis mushed-rooms."

"We know. Lucky we decided ta induce vomiting with th' tequila, otherwise ya might not be here." Sigh. "It's all too big fer us. Somebody out there wants ya dead, n' we can only pr'tect ya fer so long. We can't risk our cover gettin' blown. We-"

He stopped short and looked over at Skwisgaar, who read the agent's green eyes easily enough. He read that he was now a risk to them, his rescuers, putting their whole operation in danger after all those suffering long months of work. They didn't have to look after him; they didn't have to care about him and protect him—they did it out of the goodness of their hearts, or at least that was the way Pickles was looking at him now. And deep in his still-queasy stomach, Skwisgaar felt that old guilt gnawing away at him, eating and eating like a single fat snowy white grub. It feasted on his conscience and his dreams and the heart he had almost lost once upon a time, and it wasn't going to stop until everything had been devoured.

It was with that thought that Skwisgaar knew what had to be done. Toki was going to get him one of these days, sooner more likely than later judging by the rate of goons he was sending out, and Skwisgaar owed it to these two feds to let them hear the truth. Here would be his revenge on Toki Wartooth, his revenge on his neglectful mother, his revenge on Snow White, the thing responsible for so much violence and misery.

The life that Skwisgaar had so valued yesterday now seemed small in comparison to the sacrifice he would make. Fucking let them come and get him. He'll be waiting and ready.

"Pickle," he said to the redheaded agent, "I…know things. Things that coulds help your case."

Pickles perked up and arched a suspicious eyebrow. "What things?"

Skwisgaar gulped. "Everythings. I know it alls. My mother…you see, she startsed it alls. Wis Columbia's connects-con…de Snow White. I wills tell you's anythings you-"

Pickles reached out and put his hands on Skwisgaar's narrow shoulders. His face was white with disbelief, eyes wide and unblinking. "Wait. You…mean ta tell me…_yer_ the son 'a th' Cocaine Queen."

The Swede nodded, looking as if he could almost burst into tears, so great was this feeling of freedom. "My name's is Skwisgaar Skwigelf, son of Serveta Skwigelf, de Snow Queen."

Pickles smiled slightly, looking just a little insane. "I don't believe it. I knew you was somehow involved in th' business, but th' goddamn _son_-! Murderface!"

"What!?"

"Get th' tape recorder an' a whole buncha blanks!"

"Fuck you!" But that meant he was going and getting them.

Then Pickles, overwhelmed, took Skwisgaar's face in his rough, gun-chapped hands and looked him straight in the eyes. "You have no idea how precious y'are ta us, Holl- Skwiss. Skwisgaar." He smiled, getting used to the name. "Yer a fuckin' shinin' beautiful diamond in this whole shitty stinkin' world. An' right now there's no guy who's courage I admire more than yours."

One thumb absently stroked Skwisgaar's cheek in an odd, gentle way that Skwisgaar found he didn't mind at all, and then Murderface plodded over like a bull in a china shop and dropped the recorder and blank mini-tapes on the bedside table.

"Have at it, ash-holes," he good-lucked to them, and Pickles let go of Skwisgaar reluctantly and began setting things up.

The Swede told everything in sharpest, accurate detail. He told of every misery, every jealousy, every drug orgy, every lonely moment, the story of his whole wretched life up to the point of his equally wretched near-death experience, and he named names. He gave addresses, numbers, associates, contacts, nicknames, everything that a childhood surrounded by drug cartels had afforded him.

Pickles sat on the bed and listened intently as the mini tape recorder clicked quietly away on the table. It was well into sundown by the time they ran out of tapes and decided to take a dinner break. "No mushed-rooms," Skwisgaar warned, and went out to town with the agents in their dried-vomit-yellow El Camino with the ghetto rust spots, feeling safer and happier than he had yet felt in his life.

* * *

The small camera hidden in the ceiling light glowed red and alive from its unseen vantage point. It had been planted by a recent visitor as assurance to record the greatest death scene ever, but had recorded quite another scene altogether. And the live feed back to a laptop in Los Angeles had just delivered some very very bad news.

Toki Wartooth sat at his desk and clawed at the leather arms of his chair, grinding his teeth together in a perfect rage. "Fucking rat," he seethed. "Fucking Sweden-rat! He working with de feds all this time. _Fuck_!" He paused a moment, massaged his forehead like it was his mind. "Well…all de little rats die someday."

He reached into the lower right drawer, beside the empty silver cigar box, and took out the custom-made semi-auto 9mm. There was a snowflake and a crown fashioned on the muzzle. He stood and wedged the gun into the back of his jeans, then called to his henchman for the keys to the Caddy.

"Where are you going?" Big Nate asked.

"To ends what you didn't," answered Toki coldly.

Because if you wanted something done right, you just had to do it yourself.

_To Be Continued..._


	4. The Lazarus Kiss

The stars were wide awake by the time the two agents and the refugee got back. They didn't mean to be gone for so long, but after dinner Pickles had suggested a short visit to the bar, and that was funny because the phrase "short visit to the bar" doesn't exist anywhere in Pickles' personal encyclopedia. They ended up staying until closing time and then Murderface fell asleep in the back of the El Camino. Skwisgaar, who was a little less trashed than Pickles, drove back to the motel. The good thing about getting behind the wheel drunk in the middle of the desert is that if you run off the road there's a good chance you'll hit nothing. Maybe a cactus if you're the lucky kind of guy. So they took quite a few detours around the old oil rigs and lost the road twice before they finally found asphalt again.

"Why didn'tcha nagivate…nagvigave…nangvi—use th' stars," Pickles said after the fact as the El Camino parked crookedly between the white lines of the motel parking lot. "Coulda got us home faster."

"I don'ts know stars," replied Skwisgaar.

"Fuck," the agent disregarded. "Yer from L.A. And yer Scaninadian." As if that meant anything.

Skwisgaar was silent for a moment, staring over the wheel at something nobody else could see. "I grows up in a dark place, Pickle. No stars shine dere."

A few moments later something touched his hand. It was another hand. He turned and saw Pickles gazing at him, drunk and bleary but all heart, in the orange glow from the street lamps, with shadows falling across his face like classic horror. His face. The face of the first person who ever actually gave a damn. "Yer gonna see stars again, Holly," Pickles murmured. "I prosmi…prom." Sigh. Stare. Green eyes. "I swear."

There was one second of pause in which anything could have happened next. Anything in the world. Skwisgaar's vision blurred wetly when he smiled, because for the first time he actually believed. He had something to believe _in_.

"Pickle…"

Then there came a drunken howl from the bed of the El Camino. It was Murderface, picking up where his partner had left off: "-BY THUH MOOOON AN' THUH SHTAARZSH IN THUH SHKYYY! I SHWEAA~ARE! …dah duhhhh duh. Fer better 'er **WORSHHH**-"

Pickles said, "Let's ditch."

"-til deashth do ush PAAAaaaaa~**AARRT**-"

Skwisgaar nodded. Two car doors slammed as the front-seaters abandoned ship.

"I LOVE YOU WISH **EVVV**-ER-EE **BEEEAT** OF MA **HEARRT**, 'N I SHW-"

Then he abruptly, mercifully, passed out.

Pickles and Skwisgaar met under the lamplight and chuckled in pity at Murderface's disparaging condition, tottering from their own lack of sobriety.

"Jest leave 'im," Pickles grinned. "He'll come around."

"Arounds what?"

They looked at each other for a moment and then started laughing. It echoed all through the parking lot and into the flat darkness beyond, tears running until the last echo faded.

"Okay. Oh…okay now," Pickles gasped, wiping his eyes. "Okay. Now…it's…hellifeyeknow o'clock-"

Skwisgaar guffawed briefly.

"-n' we gotta…gotta long day 'hedda us t'marra."

"We does?"

"Leavin'. Yanno."

"Oh. Ja…"

Pickles straightened and looked skyward. "We should prob'ly…go t' bed now. I mean sleep now. Go to sleep."

"I'm not sleepsy." Skwisgaar turned to look out into the black desert and the star-filled sky. "I t'ink I…takes a walk."

"Wh. What fer?"

"Say goodbyes."

"…ta _who_?"

His eyes moved, scanning the invisible walls of his sandy prison. "Dis place…cos I nevers will—sees it agains."

Pickles seemed to understand and nodded. "Okay, Skwiss. I…you do go that. Do whatcha gotta…yeah. I think I'm gonna. I gotta go lie down. Can't hardly ain't…walkin' good no more."

Skwisgaar turned to leave.

"Hey Hollywood."

He paused and turned.

Pickles' brow was creased in unusually sober concern. "Ya be caref…don't be gone fer too long, a'ight."

Skwisgaar smiled thinly. "I won'ts, Pickle. Just saying goodbyes."

* * *

Underneath a beach of stars and above a beach of sand, locked between the strata of this cage known as Earth, Skwisgaar sat cross-legged and stared up through the towering steel girders of a pylon. He was comfortable here for the first time, now that he knew he would be escaping from it for good. Bears, lions and warriors, shapeless fantasies, held themselves fast to the roof of the world.

A new life would begin for him tomorrow. He'd leave his old one behind, take it off like a coat and let it drop onto the shards of that ugly snow-lined mirror, the thing that haunted him with images of blood, drugs, guns and guitars. All the bad would wash away—the Snow would melt and disappear. The cold lifeless winter would lose its grip on his soul and the sun would creep over the horizon, bringing with it spring and warmth and companionship. He was twenty five now. His whole life lay ahead of him. All would be clean and new, restored, ready to start over.

Skwisgaar sighed into the cool night, wondering if this would be the last time he ever saw stars like this again.

A distant sound reached his ears and he turned around to see headlights like coyote eyes approaching slowly over the desert terrain. It was Pickles in the El Camino. Skwisgaar must have lost track of time, stayed out too long. Pickles was probably worried.

…maybe he would take Skwisgaar with him wherever he went. Skwisgaar needed someone to give him more banjo lessons. He was a fast learner sure, but he liked spending time with Pickles. He decided that even if he got a new banjo, he'd still keep the one Pickles had given him. It was special. Maybe they could form a gig, the two of them, travel around on weekends, go out drinking together…

It was only now, at this very moment, that Skwisgaar realized what was happening. No. What had already happened. It startled him a little at first, but his mind was already made up by the time the shock wore off. So what. So what if he did. He wasn't ashamed. Shame couldn't touch him now, not when he was finally free. It had haunted him in the form of his mother, his illegitimacy, his wealth, his life, himself, but it wouldn't haunt him now. No more.

He decided he would tell Pickles everything, right now. Tonight. Get it off his chest. He had a funny feeling that everything, even after this, everything was going to be okay. He felt it deep down in him. For the first time, everything was going to be okay.

Skwisgaar smiled a little to himself and crawled to his feet as the car slowed to a stop a few yards away. The engine cut but the headlights still glowed. Skwisgaar walked toward the car as a silhouette emerged and the door slammed.

"Hey, Pickle. Sorry I stays out here too-"

Something cold hit him in the chest. It was terror. Something wasn't right. As if by some extrasensory power, Skwisgaar felt the presence of a predator. Death was here. It was right here with him.

The fear cleared his sluggish senses, sharpening them to razor ice in a matter of seconds. His hair rose. His heart thrummed fast in his chest. His skin perspired. And his eyes widened in horror as the father of his nightmares stepped into the beams of the headlights.

Skwisgaar seemed to register the gleam of the 9mm before he registered Toki Wartooth's smiling, sadistic face.

"Hello. _Son_," he said, words and eyes like needles.

Skwisgaar took a step back. "Ha-how dids—dis can'ts be-"

"You shoulda know I finds you. Nobody can runs from me, Skwisgaar. You of all shoulda knows that."

The crown-and-snowflake winked at him, rife with memory. It had a legacy to fulfill. Panic flooded Skwisgaar's heart, causing it to pound hard in his chest as if it suddenly remembered the bounty it'd had on it once upon a time. He unconsciously reached a hand to his chest and clutched his shirt in his fist, protecting. Covering. Afraid that this devil possessed the power to rip it out with a glare.

Toki had to chuckle when he saw the reaction. "Don't worries, Skwisgaar. I let you keeps your heart this times. It not what I wants beside." The grin faded. "I wants everythings now."

Skwisgaar licked his lips and tried to summon some words of bravery. "If I screams den dere'll be guys wis guns out heres and dey'll-"

"Oh _shuts up_, you stupid idiot," Toki snapped tiredly, raising the gun at his stepson. "You scream and I shoots you in de fucking head."

"You's gonna shoots me anyway." Funny how easily he could speak the truth now. It gave Skwisgaar courage—it was the only weapon he had now, and he lashed out with it. "I is not scares of yous no more, Toki. Yous was nevers a father to me's. I knows it's were you who's kill my mother-"

Smirk. "I dids her a favors-"

"-and you is so fucking jealousy of me dat you t'ink you gots to kills me." He gritted his teeth. "You is a fucking cowers, Toki. Yous are so powersless dat alls you can do is sits up on yours throne and tell Big Nate to go and do t'ings for yous, since you is too scares and weak to do dems yourselv."

The Norwegian's face was a mixture of shock and rage. "H-how…_dares_ you. You-"

Skwisgaar took a step forward. "Your kingdom will falls. It's is falling right now. Dat's why you's here, because no ones else will do your dirty works for yous anymore. Dey're all leafing you. You makes big mistake by coming heres, Toki."

The safety clicked off. Skwisgaar remained undaunted.

"Go aheads. Shoots me. You's only proves what a big fucking cowers you is. It won't saves de business. De FBI knows. Dey is gonna hunts yous for de rests of your live. It's over, Toki. You lose no matters which way de snow falls."

Liquid fury burned in Toki's red eyes. "_Jævla Svenske_," he growled. "I still has control overs this situation."

"Ha. No you doesn't. Dat's just you lying to yourselv."

"Shut up."

"You is finished, Toki."

"SHUT UP!"

"And you can'ts do nothins abouts it."

He squeezed the trigger.

Skwisgaar staggered backward with a choke and fell from the light. A plume of dust rose in his absence. A small circle of blood appeared on the right side of his chest. He gasped raggedly for breath, one lung filling with blood. The shadow of his stepfather fell across him, half-obscuring his face. He spat crimson into the dust. Then he started to laugh.

Toki took a step. "SHUT UP!" Shrill and desperate. "_SHUT UP_!"

Skwisgaar smiled up at him with shiny red lips, blue eyes bright and full of life. "You wills never win."

The second shot went through his shoulder, dangerously close to his heart. He gasped, the pain tearing him apart. The world became black and white, glaring brightness and deep shadows. He curled in on himself, tendrils of hair trailing in the dirt.

"I wins this at least," Toki muttered, only his outline visible.

"You win n-not'ings," Skwisgaar rasped, drooling blood as he raised his head. "Cowers never win. Dey just—ng. Steals from others." With that, he launched himself from the ground and sprang at Toki.

The gun rang out a third and final time, and Skwisgaar Skwigelf fell to the ground. He didn't move. Blood, red as sin, pooled in his yellow-gold hair and ran across the cocaine-white skin of his cheek.

Toki was shaking as he climbed into the Caddy and turned the ignition, but once the tires found asphalt everything was fine again. Everything was good. It was finally over. He'd finished it once and for all.

The Prince was dead.

Long live the King.

* * *

The walls of the room were pale yellow, almost white, where the two federal agents sat. The color was too happy. Too bright. This was a place of death and disease. They needed to be black. Paint them black, black as that night, blacker than the emptiness Pickles felt inside him. Blacker than the place where the one he was supposed to protect had gone.

A woman in white approached. "You may go see him now," she said.

Pickles faintly registered Murderface asking something. Whatever it was, she shook her head and apologized softly. Murderface had to take Pickles by the arm and help him stand.

They entered the room and his heart chilled like it had the very first time. He must have hesitated or looked like he was cracking up because Murderface gripped his shoulder and said, "Buck up, Patrick."

The redhead sat down beside the bed and tried to keep his face from twisting.

There he lay in his coffin of clear plastic, dressed in white, head bound with gauze. Tubes to help him breathe. Liquid to keep him alive. Machines beeping slowly on the side. Monitoring his life. His semi-life. Or whatever you'd call the stage between life and death, wherever he was now.

"The infection in his lungs is clearing," someone said. "He still needs the curtain for now. We're giving him antibiotics…" Jumble jarble words words words. "…help if he would come out of the coma but…" More words. Same as last time. Broken record. Cold and emotionless. Didn't they know who he was? What he meant to- "…due to the possibility of brain swelling if he comes around…" Shut up. For the love of God. Just shut up. "…very slim chance of-"

"Can ya jest shut th' hell up n' go away," Pickles snapped, clenching his fists. "Go on. Get out. Leave us alone."

The words were driven away. Now he could think. Now he could see. Sort of. It had been difficult to see these past few weeks. Everything had been blurred.

Murderface stood by the door and screwed his face into a hard expression to keep himself from breaking. He felt it too, but he was better at repressing it. He watched his partner in the chair, hands reaching out with nothing to touch, nothing that he _could_ touch. It was unimaginably cruel and unbearable to watch.

"Wake up, Holly," he heard faintly, the same mantra he'd heard every time. "I can't stand seein' ya like this. Yer not s'posed ta…be…I'm, I'll never fergive myself for lettin' ya go out alone. Don't let 'im win, Holly. Please come back t' me."

The next day Skwisgaar was pronounced clinically brain dead. He was suffering like this, the doctors said. He would never recover. They suggested pulling the plug and letting him die naturally. Hopes dead and heart wounded, Pickles signed the consent form.

He could at last touch Skwisgaar now, freed from the plastic curtain. He held his hand as the life support equipment went quiet and tried to keep himself together. Tried like hell. It still didn't stop him from letting out a sob when he saw the chest stop rising and felt the faint pulse go still. The doctor pronounced him and then left the room.

Pickles massaged those talented fingers, the fastest in the world, now cold and lifeless. "Goddammit, Hollywood. Ya were s'posed ta live. We…"

It didn't matter anymore. Skwisgaar was gone. The case was in shambles. Wartooth, if he had any sense, was three countries away by now. All to shit, everything. Just when the struggle seemed over, fate dealt its cruel hand.

But Pickles didn't care about that anymore. The case that had occupied him for the past three years, that had consumed his every waking moment, suddenly didn't mean shit when someone he loved more than any-fucking-thing had just died right in front of him. Nothing meant anything anymore. Nothing ever would. Life was grey and colorless to Pickles now, for the light that had shined through the prism of his monochrome existence and created rainbows had flickered out. That star, that shining beautiful diamond in this whole shitty stinking world, was gone now. Skwisgaar, who had cheated death and survived so many times, now dead because of…

Pickles heaved a trembling sigh and reached out to stroke the Swede's forehead. "I'm serry," he whispered, staring at the peaceful face. "I'm serry I couldn't protect ya enough, Skwisgaar. Gad knows I tried ta." Deep breath. "Yer troubles're over now, at least. No more hidin'. Yer free now. No one can hurt ya anymore. I hope yer happy…wherever y'are." He wiped his face with his sleeve and stood. "I never got ta tell ya how much I love ya."

Fresh tears dripped from his cheeks as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to those soft, warmthless lips. He drew back slowly and gave the cold white hand a gentle squeeze. "Ya been gone two minutes," he choked, "an' I miss ya already."

He sat down in the chair and wept soundlessly, head bowed, shoulders shaking, eyes hidden. Murderface strode over and placed a crushing hand on Pickles' shoulder, holding in his own feelings of grief.

"It'sh okay, Patrick," he murmured. But they both knew it wasn't, nor would it ever be again.

Pickles was so overwrought that he didn't register the sensation of movement in his hand for a few seconds. He raised his head as he suddenly became aware, and opened his hand to reveal those white fingers slowly curling.

"Musht be…rigor mortish," Murderface muttered, though his eyes were wide.

"Can't be," Pickles breathed. "Too soon."

"Maybe…uh. Posht-coma convul-"

"Waitwaitquiet!"

The two agents were silent, listening. A small hiss. Like air being squeezed through vocal cor-

"Ah…aah…"

Nobody moved a muscle. Except Murderface, who moved his mouth to say, "Oh my fuckin' GAWD."

Pickles sprang from his chair so fast that he flipped it over with a bang. "He's alive! HE'S ALIVE! Quick! Get the defibrill-"

Murderface grabbed his frantic partner by the arms and hauled him back as he prepared to perform CPR on Skwisgaar.

"Don't touch him yet! Let 'im come around!"

"But I gotta-"

"He doeshn't need you fer thish, ashole! Jusht let 'im come back on hish own."

"No! He could slip back at any-"

"I'm gonna punsch you in the fuckin' ballsh, Picklesh, I shwear to-"

The lips moved. "Pih…Pickle…" Bruised eyelids fluttered open. Murderface felt Pickles go limp and decided to let go.

On the bed, the living dead: Skwisgaar weakly raised an arm. "Pickle, I can'ts sees you."

"I'm right here," he replied, grasping his hand.

The blue eyes wandered groggily for a moment before they settled on the agent's face. "Oh." A faint smile. "Dere yous are, Pickle."

"Yeah. Here I am." He swallowed dryly. "Ya came back?"

"I hads to. You…wokes me up from a nice sleeps."

It was almost funny. In a panicked, hysterical way. Pickles bit his lower lip and tried to contain himself. "D'ya…know what's goin' on?"

"Ah…no."

"Huh. Shtupid azsh ever. It'sh good to have ya back, Shkwishgaar."

"Shut up, Murderface," his partner snapped.

"Aw fuck you."

"Skwiss." Pickles redirected his attention to the more important. "Toki, he. He got ta Seven Ores somehow n' he…yanno, found ya. Shot ya three times. Got ya in th' head, put ya flat out. Skull splinters'n everything. Ya shouldn't even be alive right now."

"…hu."

"They got th' bullet out okay though. Heh. Ya gotta bald spot where they took it outta ya."

Skwisgaar made a pained face. "Unhh. Doze. Fucker. Dumb dildos."

Pickles smiled, and then it all decided to come out. Tears, confessions, everything. He pressed Skwisgaar's lean hand in both of his and said, "I shoulda told ya sooner but I never…couldn't seem ta find th' right time 'r place but…an' the fact that ya coulda left this world without knowin' how much I love ya, Skwisgaar, it. I. It made me wanna lay down an' die right beside ya." He gripped the hand and held it to his lips as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Swede's blue eyes grew large and soft. "Pickle. You loves me…back?"

Pickles looked up, put his entire person on pause while the thoughts kerchunked through his mental gears. Then there was a crash as the entire engine dropped out. No further thought was required—he leaned over Skwisgaar and kissed him. Kissed him like he should have done a long time ago. And Skwisgaar, he slid an arm around Pickles' shoulders and held onto him like he never wanted to let go.

"Oh goddammit, cut that schit out," Murderface grunted, nauseated. "You guysh're makin' me _shick_."

"Mf. Den turn arounds."

"Yeah, turn around."

But Murderface didn't turn around, partly because he didn't want to leave his ass exposed and vulnerable with two gayfers in the room and partly because it was kind of sick and interesting to watch. But it suddenly got a whole lot more interesting when Skwisgaar broke his lips from Pickles' and said lowly, "Let's us go get him."

Pickles looked perplexed. "Huh?"

"I know wheres he is."

"Who?"

"My steps-father. I know to wheres he is runned."

Pickles and Murderface exchanged shocked looks.

Skwisgaar said, "I has no longer fears of him. I want to go do dis-" He sat up, face creased with pain.

"Wait wait, hold on a sec there, Skwiss, I mean, Jesus Christ, ya jest came back from th' _dead_ n' now ya-"

"And now I wants to go and puts de fears of death into Toki. And I know ex-kactly how I shoulds do its."

* * *

They didn't bother telling the hospital about the Lazarus Kiss or even that they were leaving with a presumed corpse. They'd find that out soon enough. Skwisgaar walked—walked as if he hadn't been shot and comatose for three weeks—from Montevista Hospital in a set of stolen scrubs with vengeance glinting in his eyes and a happy smile on his face. He was immortal now, fearless and invincible.

The tires of the El Camino squealed as they left the parking lot and headed down U.S. 93. Murderface drove, though the term should be used loosely because even suicidal maniacs used the brake pedal once in a while.

Pickles wanted to call in the big guns, but Skwisgaar gently talked him out of it.

"No. Dis is personals. I must do dis by myselves."

"But…Skwiss. Yanno, we're talkin' about th' guy who tried ta-"

"Pickle, I needs dis. Please."

Who could say no to those eyes? Pickles didn't understand yet, but he nodded all the same and left his cell phone untouched.

Two whole days on the road. It didn't take much to cross the border—being federal agents had its merits—and Skwisgaar told them which route to take. He knew it well; his mother had dragged him here on "vacation" often enough. Nothing but one long nosebleed and orgasm after another. He'd always hated it here. Still, it would be nice to see "the family" again.

They came to a long, expensive driveway in a high-profile desert-oasis town. Skwisgaar took the wheel and crept the half-mile to the security gate, said hi to Rico and was allowed to pass. The mansion was Mediterranean in style with tropical landscaping only the Valenzuelas could afford in this part of Mexico. Skwisgaar cut the engine in the front drive and turned to give the two agents a somber stare.

"Put on a vest at least," Pickles pleaded. "Please."

"He is already knowings dat bullets is useless, Pickle. I wills be okay."

Pickles knew it was pointless to argue. It was out of his hands. All he could do now was hope. He leaned forward and Skwisgaar felt the tickle of Pickles' bristly goatee against his face, then soft lips. It was the same kiss that had brought him back to life when he thought he had nothing left to live for. He had something now, and he let Pickles know it, returning the gesture with every ounce of love and gratitude he could muster.

Murderface grumbled and gnawed on his half-spent cigar. "Alright, ladiesh. Let's get thish over with _now_," he muttered.

* * *

Toki was on the phone with Ofdensen in the study, cheerfully discussing plans for his solo album.

"-and don't lets anyones else tells you otherwise. Oh, and I wants that new track on there too, _Poison Apple_."

_"Ah yes, the…one about a desert homicide."_

"Yeah, that one."

_"Mr. Wartooth, I would ah, advise you against doing that with your stepson's…_accident_ still fresh in-"_

"Ha! Who gives a craps about that olds news anymore? Not me. Boo hoo, so sad. I think I gonna cry-"

_"But Mr. Wartooth, I'm afraid you don't-"_

"Look, as soon as this all blow overs I be right backs in L.A. to finish things up with de albums that _is_ gonna has that fucking songs on it or-"

_"Toki, there isn't going to _be_ an album."_

"…what?"

_"A letter on my desk this morning. Sender unknown. It said that-"_

There was a knock at the door. Toki put his hand over the receiver and snapped, "What is it!"

From behind the door, Big Nate rumbled, "Someone to see you, boss."

"Tells them to go away! I'm very-"

The door swung open. Toki turned and froze, his face a picture of horror.

_"…you are no longer the fastest guitarist alive, Mr. Wartooth."_

The phone thumped onto the rug and was silent.

Skwisgaar, upright and bandaged but very much alive, stood in the doorway with Nathan towering in silence just behind him. Toki stumbled back as if he were seeing a ghost. In a way, he was. Skwisgaar smiled menacingly. "Hello. _Daddy_."

Toki backed up against the desk, eyes wide. "No. No it can't be you. I fucking _shoots_ you."

"You misseds."

Time stood still as stepfather and stepson stared each other down, then everything suddenly snapped into motion: Skwisgaar lowered his shoulders and charged, slamming Toki in the chest with his shoulder. Toki hit the floor with the Swede on top of him, pummeling him with both fists. But Toki was stronger, and where speed had allowed him to be taken by surprise, strength now was the determining factor. He planted his knee into Skwisgaar's stomach and caught him in the head with a hard right. Pain shot through Skwisgaar's whole body when the fist impacted with his still-tender GSW. He landed on his back, blind with agony, and Toki crawled to his feet.

"Gun!" he called to Big Nate, and caught the weapon with one hand. When Skwisgaar opened his eyes he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that had already taken him down once before.

Toki smiled triumphantly. "Ha ha! Déjà voodoo. Funny how that is. I really hates for your brain to be ruinings this nice rug, but…I hates _you_ more."

Skwisgaar muttered under his breath, "Fuck."

Cold metal touched his forehead as the muzzle pressed into his skin.

"I won't miss this times," Toki whispered eerily. "Good night, sweet prince."

Skwisgaar closed his eyes. He could feel the thoughts inside his head. Wondered what they'd feel like flying behind him in chunks. There was a click. One second…two…three…

He opened his eyes. Toki was looking down at him, surprised. He squeezed the trigger again. _Click._ Again. _Click._

_Click. Click. Click. Click. Click._

A deep, throaty laugh faded into existence from behind them both. Big Nate was rolling eight hollow points from hand to giant hand.

Toki's mouth fell open. "You…you…"

"I quit," Nathan growled. One by one the bullets dropped to the floor and rolled away.

Skwisgaar was chuckling under his breath as he climbed to his feet. A small rivulet of blood had stained his bandages and was running down the side of his face but otherwise he looked quite well. Certainly better than Toki, who decided to try the gun one last time; he lashed out, intending to stun Skwisgaar with a pistol-whip to the face, but Skwisgaar sensed it coming. Though he wasn't as strong as his stepfather, he was—and would always be—faster than him.

He ducked. The firearm missed him by inches. He reached up and grabbed Toki's forearm, still in motion, and pushed hard. Then he grabbed Toki's left wrist and jerked it in that same left-to-right movement, effectively using Toki's own momentum against him. This took only one and a half seconds. A full body slam later and Toki was face first on the floor, Skwisgaar on top of him and twisting his right arm behind his back. Fingers loosened and dropped the gun. Skwisgaar wrenched upward, forcing the Norwegian to scream in pain.

"Likes dat, ah? It's is somethings I learns froms de FBIs."

Toki snarled and Skwisgaar twisted harder. There was a scream. What a lovely sound.

"Okay, lets me gets one thing straights here," he spoke lowly in Toki's ear. "Don'ts fuck wis me, Toki Wartooth, or I fuck yous up real good. You don'ts evens want to know what wills happen if I let Nat'an have yous."

There was an answering growl of approval, and Skwisgaar smiled. "Now, I is going to tell yous how it's going to be from nows on…"

**three years later**

The stage was still empty but the crowd was humming like a hive, a mass thousands strong roiling with anticipation, cheering and chanting for one thing only.

Backstage. It was semi-dark in the dressing room, mostly quiet. Two dim figures were moving rhythmically on the futon, motions languid and fluid. Golden hair draped long over bare white skin, glowing ethereally in the low light. A back arched sensually like living art, blond tendrils falling away to reveal the tattoo of a crown-and-snowflake below the nape of the neck.

"Ahh…" sighed Skwisgaar, sinking onto the hips again. "Pickle…"

The redheaded ex-agent pushed against Skwisgaar's weight, making him moan beautifully. "Yeahhh," he encouraged softly. "Keep doin' that, baby."

The Swede kept on, rolling his hips up and down while Pickles grasped him, sliding his hand up and down the warm, solid flesh.

"Yer perfect…hhaaa yeah, so fuckin' perfect…"

Skwisgaar held his eyes half open, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he continued to ride Pickles.

Just then there were a few warning bangs on the door and the familiar gargle of Murderface's voice: "I KNOW WHAT'CHER DOIN' IN THERE YOU FLAMING FAGGOTSH! WE'RE ON IN TEN MINUTESH SHO HURRY UP!"

It was hard not to laugh at that. Skwisgaar did, grinning and hissing quietly as Pickles mirrored him. It didn't take Murderface—now retired from the FBI and quite satisfied with being a full time bastard—long to figure out about the Pre-Concert Good-Luck-Fuck tradition that Pickles and Skwisgaar shared. There was more to it than just that of course, but they at least had the dignity of sparing the details from everybody else, fans and bandmates alike.

"Mm, comes in me, Pickle," Skwisgaar muttered huskily, resuming his sensual motions. "Comes hard ins sides of me."

Pickles felt his eyes fall half shut as those hushed and fiery words ignited his desire to fever pitch. A few moments later he granted Skwisgaar's wish, thrusting hard and letting loose inside of him to a symphony of the Swede's own moans and sighs.

"I love yous," Skwisgaar whispered, leaning down to brush his nose and lips against that red goatee. "Patrick."

Pickles smiled vaguely at the name that was now all but dead to two people in the world, and ran his hands over Skwisgaar's scalp. His fingers sifted through golden strands of hair and his palm brushed gently against the small lump of scar tissue on the side of his head. It always reminded Pickles of what he had almost lost, once upon a time.

His smile faded and an expression of seriousness and melancholy happiness followed in its wake. "I love ya too. Hollywood."

They shared a kiss, one that never seemed to lose its powers to resurrect life and soul, and then Murderface practically smashed down the door with his fist.

"WE'RE GONNA BE LATE, LOOZSHERSH! MOVE YER ASSHESH!"

Pickles smirked. "Better not be late fer yer big debut, babe."

Five minutes later they appeared onstage amidst a sea of screaming humanity. Lights flashed, flickered, showered them like glittering stardust from falling comets. Skwisgaar raised his arm and the screaming increased by 50 decibels. He ducked his head a moment, slipping the solid black, steel-tipped, skull-studded banjo of heavy metal doom onto his shoulders. He slid the thumb and finger picks onto his right hand digits and shot a glance at the rest of the band: Nathan was poised at the mic, his naturally guttural, terror-evoking voice making him an apt singer, ready to astound and destroy; Murderface smiled superiorly at the attention he and his bass were receiving, already famous for his notorious Pick Dick technique; Pickles waved at the crowd behind a set of drums, reveling in the glory; and directly beside Skwisgaar, humbled in the shadow of his former stepson, Toki Wartooth was ready to provide rhythm backup on his Flying V as per the arrangement agreed by the U.S. Supreme Court and the National Institute for the Criminally Insane in the case of The People v. Toki Warooth. A pair of 24/7 ankle cuffs had long ago broken his will to run, and even if he somehow managed to break the computer-chip activated lock, two sharp-shooting federal attendants were always nearby to pacify him with 5cc's of heavy duty animal tranqs. It sure beat being in prison at least.

Toki had settled into his new lifestyle quite well, having undergone some major changes; his power lost and his kingdom fallen, he had now regressed to a "safety age" of childlike naiveté and selective ignorance where he felt least likely he would be harmed. This was his knee-jerk reaction for self-preservation, and he had a lot to fight for. The constant reminder of being Second Best and the ridicule he received from others was the punishment he would endure for the rest of his life. Cruel and unusual it might be, but it was better than wasting talents of even the homicidal second-fastest-guitarist-alive to a syringe of sodium thiopental.

Skwisgaar spoke loudly over the roar, "You readys, Daddy-Os?"

Toki looked up and nodded wordlessly.

Skwisgaar glanced one last time at Pickles and then faced the teeming, clamoring sea of fans. The camera flashes shone like thousands of stars before him—stars more brilliant than those in the sky, for these had greater meaning—and he had a funny feeling that everything, even after tonight and all the tonights stretched out in front of him, everything was going to be okay.

Everything was going to be okay.


End file.
